


Days and Ways

by OssaCordis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Coffee, Crime Scenes, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family, Nicotine Patches, Sad, Scotland Yard, Stream of Consciousness, day in the life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday. Greg Lestrade. Measuring out a life with coffee spoons, crime scenes, and infidelities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days and Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph both borrowed (with apologies) from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." This is somewhat of an experiment for me, since I've never tried to write in Stream of Consciousness style before; please let me know what you think! Unbetaed.
> 
> Greg Lestrade, Sgt. Donovan, Anderson, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. The plot of this story and all other characters belong to me.

_For I have known them all already, known them all:_   
_Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,_   
_I have measured out my life with coffee spoons_

T.S. Eliot

* * *

Thursday. The sound of an alarm at six a.m. Shuffling between the bedclothes, warm bodies, the first confused moments of wakefulness.

“I’m taking the cat to the vet today, Greg. And the contractor needs to be paid for the kitchen.”

“Yes, alright.”

Standing, swaying, clad only in pants and a t-shirt. Nearly kicks the cat in the corridor on the way to the toilet. Tess and Jamie still asleep for at least another hour before school; plenty of time for a run, a shower, a first cup of coffee.

Natalie is sitting up when he comes back to their bedroom, her index finger deftly flicking across the screen of her iPhone. “Can you pick up some rocket on the way home tonight? We’re going to the Millers’ for dinner, and I said we would bring salad.”

“Yes, of course.” Slouching out of one shirt, into another. Squeezing into the embarrassing Lycra jogging shorts. Lacing trainers over a pair sweat-wicking socks that cost more than he cares to think about; yet another hangover of being raised on a Somerset council estate that Natalie would laugh about if he shared his thoughts.

“I’ll only be out for half an hour or so. Want to take a shower before the kids wake up.”

“Mmm,” Natalie agrees, the light from her phone casting shadows on the headboard.

Morning fog, creeping humidity, first watery rays of sunlight just beginning to peek through. The outskirts of London are calm at this hour. One foot after another. The sound of his own huffing breath the loudest thing. A few cars dreamily drift down the road; another runner raises a single hand in greeting. It’s going to be unbearably hot today once the sun really breaks through. Crimes always seem to rise with the temperature. Makes the blood boil. Fever pitch.

Back at home, in the shower. He turns the water to cold, shivers under it. Thinks about the Southwark woman found dead in her bath yesterday. Cleaning woman thought it was murder. Medical examiner said aneurysm.

Natalie is out of bed and dressed by seven. Sensible skirt. Flat shoes. She wakes Tess and Jamie while he’s getting dressed himself. The kitchen is a tip, so the kids crowd onto the sofa with bowls of cornflakes.

“I thought the cupboards at least were supposed to be done by now. Bloody contractor.”

Natalie hands him his cup of coffee as he surveys the wreck where he used to marinade steaks during the summer. “It’s taking a bit longer since I couldn’t decide what countertops I wanted.”

“Granite?”

“No, butcher block. Less expensive, after all. It will look like a country kitchen, don’t you think?”

Across the street, another row of semi-detached houses with identical faces and roofs. He stares distractedly at them through the front window for a moment. “Yes. Just like the countryside. Have you seen my nicotine patches?”

“I thought you weren’t using those anymore.”

A shrug. Apathetic. “Better than smoking.”

“Well, you’re out. You’ll need to stop at the shop on the way to work if you want some. More coffee?”

“Please.”

Natalie bundles Tess and Jamie into her sedan at quarter till eight. He collects a stack of files from his nightstand and throws them onto the seat of his own mediocre hatchback. The one on top slides off the seat and flaps open in the footwell. Crime scene photo. Sharp smear of scarlet blood. Spread-eagled pose. Vacant, staring eyes. He grabs it and chucks it back onto the seat without a second glance.

He stops at the shop for nicotine patches, intends to buy one box, finds himself at the chip and PIN machine with two in his hand.

The A4 is more crowded than usual this morning, and he strolls into work twenty minutes late.

Sergeant Donovan, first thing. Greets him with a cup of coffee. “There are two bodies in Telegraph Hill. Local police think it has something to do with that drug smuggling ring we’ve been following.”

“For fuck’s sake, Donovan. Let me at least go throw these on my desk.” Not even nine a.m. and already on his third coffee and first nicotine patch. The files will have to wait until later as he runs them up to his office, and then meets his team in the car park to catch a ride to the scene.

Donovan briefs him from the back of a squad car as he watches London out the window. Westminster. The Thames. The A2. Countless people. Swarm of humanity. Like ants on a hill.

Anderson is just concluding his work – “two males, ages 20 to 25, white, close range gunshot wound to the back of each head, execution-style, consistent with the others killed by this same gang, but we’ll need to get a ballistics report to see if it’s the same weapon” – when Sherlock Holmes heralds his arrival with the sound of petulant squabbling from the direction of the crime scene tape. How the devil does that man always know where to find him and his crime scenes?

He intervenes with Donovan and raises the tape to allow the gangly man to duck under. John Watson isn’t with him today. Unfortunate. The doctor has a soothing influence on everyone, with his bland, oatmeal jumpers and plain, friendly face. Which he doesn’t buy for a moment, no, not from John Watson. Anyone who could live with Sherlock for so long must have a heart of lead in his ribcage, and a mind like a steel trap. But he likes the man anyways.

Sherlock’s deductions wash over him. Not related to the drug ring at all. An imitation assassination. Something to do with the underground music scene. Rival record labels. Such nonsense. “I guess we’re done here.”

Sherlock is at his elbow the entire way back to the squad car. Spitting insults at Donovan and Anderson in the same breath as social commentary on England’s dubstep scene and deductions on the personal life of his – least? – favourite DI.

“Why isn’t your kitchen done being remodelled yet?”

“ _Really_ , Sherlock. How do you know? No, why do you care?”

“I don’t concern myself with the trivial personal lives of my intellectual inferiors. But I thought you might like to know that your wife is having another affair. With the contractor.”

“If this is your way of showing concern, Sherlock, please don’t.”

“You should be tested for STIs. Did you know that the rate of infection in middle-aged males in the UK –”

“Yes, shut up, Sherlock. I’ll be in touch if I have any cases that I actually _want_ your help on.” He slams the car door shut, leaves Sherlock scowling in the sunlight on a street corner in Lewisham. Nearly noon now. The heat of the day is steadily sneaking up on them. Donovan has shed her jacket and retrieved two cool bottles of water from somewhere, one of which she offers to him.

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

“I’m not as surprised as you must think I am.” Feeble sip of water. “It certainly explains why the cupboards have taken so long to finish.”

She laughs, but there’s no heart in it.

Lunch is more coffee and a middling chicken sandwich from the closest shop. He eats at his desk, trying to write a report. Outside, the sun screams with heat. The first day without rain in a month. Sign of summertime. It will be a drought if this keeps up too long. Hosepipes ban. Natalie always liked a green garden, always sulks when they are not allowed to water.

Who else has she been fucking?

Not Alan Miller, he hopes. Snide, smarmy scum. Won’t be able to bear sitting through dinner with him tonight, especially if he’s been screwing Natalie.

How would he know? Short of bringing Sherlock to dinner with him. Not an option.

Natalie and Sherlock met once, when she was six months pregnant with Tess. Sherlock had just finished helping on his third Scotland Yard case, and was attempting to detox for the second time. She had been maternal with him. Made an entire roast for Sunday dinner, plates replete with potatoes and carrots and all the trimmings. Sherlock had picked at it, nauseous and glassy-eyed. No strength to be cruel that day.

That was when he and Natalie were still in love. Now?

He bins the rest of his sandwich and pulls a fresh nicotine patch from the new box in his desk drawer.

The afternoon is uneventful. Writing reports. Collating data on the drug ring operating out of Croydon. More crime scene photographs. Endless bodies, endless desolation. Witness statements. Victim statements. Perpetrator statements, denials, accusations, bitter declarations of revenge. An unintelligible medical report from St. Bart’s, something about hemothorax and cyanosis. Another body, and another, and another. Throwing themselves into the road, perhaps? Escaping the hideousness. But, no, wishful thinking. All gunshot wounds.

A knock on his door. He looks at the time on his computer. 16:27. “Come in!”

John Watson, looking harmless as usual in a button-down blue checked shirt, khaki trousers, pair of Brogues worn at the toe. Holding two paper coffee cups from the Criterion and a thick manila folder under one arm. Probably went out of his way to go to the Criterion. Better coffee there.

“Hello, Greg. Brought you a coffee and some of Sherlock’s ongoing files about the Croydon gang.”

It’s better not to ask how Sherlock knows about the case. He accepts the cup, knowing full well that he won’t sleep a wink tonight at the rate he’s going. “Not working this afternoon?”

“No. I only worked this morning at the clinic. Pretty dull today, only a few sniffles. I hear I missed a crime scene this morning.”

“Mmm. Not related to the gang after all, though, according to Sherlock.”

“Well, can’t have everything in life.” John relinquishes the folder. “Sherlock was rather reluctant to give this up. It would be best if I could make copies for you, and bring the originals back to him.”

“Sure, sure.” He opens the folder, glances at a few pages of spidery writing. Hand-drawn diagrams of gang-member relationships. Newspaper clippings, printouts from six different news sites. Maps with circles and exes drawn in bold red pen. At _least_ twice the information his team has been working with. “This is great. Thanks, John. How did you get it away from him?”

John fiddles with the plastic lid of his cup. “I heard about what happened this morning. Not from Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan texted me, incidentally.”

He hands the folder back to John. “You don’t have to apologize for him.”

“No, I don’t. But, I did speak to him. He wanted to give you these files. At least to look at. His way of saying sorry, though you don’t see him here in person saying it. I think he regretted what he did this morning.”

He gives John a level look. No-nonsense.

“Alright, maybe not regretful. But he _did_ want to share the information.”

“Just give it to Sergeant Brown down the hall. He’ll copy it for me. Thanks again, John, for the coffee and the papers.”

John nods and stands to leave. “Do you know Mike Stamford from St. Bart’s? Mate of mine from uni? We go out for pints once a week or so, watch Chelsea play, that sort of thing. Whinge about Sherlock occasionally. Would you be interested in coming with us? You know, get away from work and everything for a night?”

“Yeah, sure. Let me know when.”

“Probably next Tuesday. I’ll be in touch.” John waves a friendly hand and shuts his office door quietly.

Sergeant Brown brings the copies to his office sometime after five p.m. He spends another hour sorting through them, and pins a few choice charts to the wall in the conference room for his team to look at. Donovan intercepts him when he tries to leave at quarter to seven. Wants to schedule a news conference about the two men found that morning in Telegraph Hill. He waves her off. Tomorrow. It can wait. The bodies aren’t going anywhere.

He drives past Tesco on the way home, has to turn around and go back to buy the rocket. Natalie will be furious if he forgets it.

Tess and Jamie are sitting on the sofa, eating something reheated from the freezer, eyes fixed on the television when he gets home. Natalie is in the kitchen, hair in an up-do, nails freshly lacquered. She chops radishes between the plastic drop-cloths on the one countertop surface that is still open. The kitchen looks the same as it did this morning. No progress on that front.

“Did you remember the rocket?”

He holds up the shopping bag to show her, sets it down within her reach. Grabs a biscuit from the tin on the shelf. Joins the kids on the sofa, pressing kisses to their foreheads. Grumbled greetings. Dad is interrupting again.

“Learn anything new at school today?”

“Long vowels!” Jamie says proudly. “Eeeee. Aaaaa. Iiiii.”

“Sshhh!” Tess scolds him. “I’m watching this!”

He strokes Tess’ hair silently, wraps an arm around Jamie.

“Any progress on that Croydon case?” Natalie calls to him.

“A little bit. Sherlock sent over some paperwork today that looks very promising.”

“Daaaaaad,” Tess groans.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be quiet.” He settles into the cushions, drowsy, chewing noiselessly on the biscuit. Stale. Nature documentary flickering across the darkening room. Sir David Attenborough narrating a Serengeti lion hunt. Wildebeest by the throat. Tess is fascinated. Jamie hides his face.

The bell rings, and he stands, dislodging Tess and Jamie from where they’ve curled around him. At the door, the neighbour’s girl, Olivia. Sixteen. Smooth face, long blonde hair, longer legs. Like a younger picture of Natalie.

“Hello, Mr. Lestrade!”

He lets her in, shows her to the kitchen where Natalie is putting the final touches on her salad.

“Oh, good. Tess, Jamie! Olivia’s here!”

They wave distractedly. Olivia waves back.

“Jamie needs to be in bed by 8:30, Tess by 9:30. Tess is allowed to finish watching her nature programme, but then she has to read for at least 30 minutes for school.”

Natalie is so efficient. Brutally efficient. Serengeti-lion-hunt-efficient. She could set Scotland Yard to rights if she tried hard enough, and probably still have energy left to scold Sherlock. They should hire her onto the force. She gives more orders to Olivia. Finishes chopping the last of the vegetables with a flourish. Tosses the entire salad in a bowl.

“I think that’s all. Greg, can you think of anything else?”

“Salad cream?”

“No, Sarah isn’t eating the store-bought kind anymore. She said not to bring any; she has her own recipe she’s made.”

“I guess that’s that, then.”

“Well then. Olivia, we will be back by eleven at the latest.”

He holds the door open for Natalie as she carries the salad bowl. Trails after her down the darkening street. Rings the bell for the Millers.

Alan Miller answers, looking casual and summery in shorts and sandals. Vain. Prat. Trying too hard to look young. Natalie would never sleep with someone like him.

Would she?

Over dinner, Alan drones in his ear about working at the bank, which he has no interest in. Sarah emphatically lectures Natalie on the three stages of the Dukan Diet. Even less interesting. Sarah has always been waspish and pinched-looking. The sort of woman who would poison her husband. He’s arrested at least two of those in his career. Sherlock testified at both of their trials. Absolute publicity disaster, but it did the trick. Long prison sentences.

He couldn’t blame Alan for being an adulterer if he is one. Not really.

He wonders if other people think the same thing about Natalie. Did he drive her to infidelity? He’s always loved her. Always. Never been anything but a loyal husband, loving father. The sorts of things they inscribe on tombstones of the dearly departed.

His phone rings. Natalie gives him a look. How dare you, and so on. He excuses himself from the table.

“DI Lestrade speaking.”

“Lestrade!” Donovan again. “Three more bodies in Croydon. We already ID’ed two of them – both names on one of the Freak’s charts you pinned up in the conference room tonight.”

“Is forensics there already?”

“Just getting started. Trying to hurry, though, before the Freak and Dr. Watson show up.”

“What, did someone call them?”

“The mother of one of the victims. She’s refusing to talk to us, says she only wants that detective from the tabloids.”

“Of course she does.” He sighs. “Fuckin’ hell. Alright, I’ll be there in forty minutes. If Sherlock shows up, _try_ to play nice.”

“Only if he does.”

He hangs up. Sheepishly makes his way back to the Miller’s dining room.

“Work?” Natalie has a careful smile on her face, like this doesn’t bother her at all.

“Croydon again. Same case. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

Alan Miller is looking uncomfortably smug.

He doesn’t like this one bit. Not at all. It _bodes_. Something not right here.

Natalie is so calm. Perfect picture of understanding and sympathy. “Well, if it’s important...”

He nods. “It is. Again, I’m very sorry about this.”

“Greg’s been very busy at work lately. Trying to break up a gang in Croydon.”

Sarah and Alan Miller make all the right suburban noises of consternation and disapproval. The sort of people who have never really lived within London city limits. Who do not hold with crime and criminals and all the dirty things in life. Nor with the police who clean up after them.

“Well, we must do this again. On a different night. And, please, Natalie. Stay for dessert. I’m not eating any, but Alan brought home an Arctic roll.” Lips pursed in disapproval. Husband wilfully disobeying the family diet.

“No, thank you, Sarah. I’d like to reschedule. When Greg’s not in the middle of a case. I’d best go let the babysitter off duty. We’ll just have an early night.”

Natalie carries the salad bowl back to the house, with Greg trailing again. It’s completely dark out now. Pools of light from the streetlamps. Bright windows from the front rooms of the neighbours’ homes. Backlit lace curtains. Probably happy people inside. People who work boring, easy, satisfying jobs and take camping holidays to Cornwall. Who never see a dead body except embalmed in a casket.

He clears his throat. “Natalie?”

“Mmm, Greg?”

He waits for a car to pass them in the street. For silence. Headlights turn the corner.

“I know about the contractor, Natalie.”

She stops walking. Head held high. Third time caught. Is she ashamed? Or just upset at being found out?

“What are you going to do, Greg?”

He gently reaches for her hand, squeezes it. “I don’t know.”

“You have always been a better person than me. Always the hero.”

“No.” He disagrees. It’s not true. Not really. He thinks he sees tears in her eyes, but it’s hard to tell in this light. He releases her hand, goes to pull his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. Notices his warrant card is missing again as he searches through it for cash. “Here’s the money to pay Olivia.”

She accepts it. “When will you be home?”

“Late. This could take awhile. Three bodies this time. The mum of one of the victims is a witness, but she’s not talking to us. At least, not yet.”

“Do you want me to make you a cup of instant coffee before you go?”

“That would be nice.”

While Natalie pays and dismisses Olivia, he peeks into Tess and Jamie’s bedrooms. Fast asleep. Peaceful. Almost trips over the damned cat in the corridor again on his way back downstairs. Natalie is waiting for him by the front door with a thermal travel mug.

“Be safe.” She breathes the words into his ear, folding him into one of her most maternal hugs. He places a kiss on her cheek. Chaste. Sexless. No wonder she cheats on him. He cannot tolerate the thought of Alan Miller just now. It would kill him.

Back into the hatchback. Sip of coffee, nicotine patch from the box he stowed that morning in the glove compartment. Accidentally keys the engine. Backs into the street. He can see Natalie standing in the window, watching him go. Clock on the dashboard says 22:07. His phone rings. Ignores it.  Always something. Always someone. Wanting a piece of him. A word. Talk to me. Talk to Sherlock. Fix it. Solve it. Come here. See this. Crime scene in Croydon-Telegraph Hill-Southwark. Crime scene at home that he’s too blind to observe. It must be obvious to everybody else. It must be _obscene_.

There’s a car chase that night. Police sirens. Ambulances. Chaos, but it feels so alive. Two more dead. Seven arrested. The gang is in tatters. Sherlock dislocates his shoulder, and John pops it back into place. They are laughing, even with blood on their hands; going for curry at a restaurant that owes Sherlock a favour. Relieved to be alive. Pleased to be together. That must be love, too, in a way. Probably better than what he and Natalie have.

He’s running on the last dregs of coffee in his system. Arrives back home after booking the suspects shortly after one a.m. Crawls into bed. Natalie gravitates to him in her sleep, nestling her blonde head into his shoulder. Murmuring sleepy little noises. Affectionate. But not too affectionate.

Friday. The sound of an alarm at six a.m. 


End file.
